


Look Upon Thy Death

by sneetchstar



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M, fic was more interesting to write than discourse, headcanons about Benvolio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 18:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11720229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Benvolio's thoughts as he is walking to his execution in the finale.





	Look Upon Thy Death

Benvolio Montague reasons he can die happy now.

Despite every accusation, every charge against him being completely incorrect and unfair, he knows he can go to his grave with his heart light, yet full.

He will be the scapegoat. He will be the sacrificial lamb required to bring peace to Verona.

He will not fight the guards when they come to take him to the gallows.

He will go to his death knowing the taste of Rosaline Capulet’s lips.

He will go to his death knowing the richness of being loved, truly loved by a good and giving person. Someone who looks upon him and does not see him as worthless, a burden, or just another customer.

Orphaned too young, unloved by his uncle, he withstood the treatment he received from his guardian, which usually alternated between harsh and neglectful with very little in between. He withstood it because he had Romeo and Mercutio at his side, his only true friends. They had loved him for no other reason than himself, and he had loved them for it.

But that love was ripped away, leaving a gaping, aching hole in his chest. And it became a hole into which his lord uncle only poured salt.

Until Capulet. Rosaline Capulet with her tearful apologies. Rosaline with her soft words and soft eyes and soft lips.

“I trust _you._ ”

There was such emphasis, such passion in her words that it took his breath away. She had reached for his hand, surprising him, but then when she next spoke, his shock was such that his knees very nearly buckled.

He doesn’t know who kissed whom; it does not matter. Her tentative kiss, so soft, was like a balm on that stinging, aching hole in his chest. Her big brown eyes after, staring up into his, saw directly into his soul, saw the very essence of him. He did not hide, did not shy away.

As she trusts him, he trusts her. He let her see his vulnerability; he wore it in his eyes and let her see it. He let her see how much he truly needed her.

So much so that he scarcely remembers reaching for her once more, needing more, knowing he will never get enough.

The second kiss was like sunlight on his face for the first time. He could feel his heart swell to welcome her in and the contract around her, keeping her safe there in his breast for the short time he will be allowed to cherish her.

All too quickly it was over. All too quickly she scurried from the darkness of the dungeon, leaving nothing for him but her lingering scent, too sweet for the dankness of his dungeon cell.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in until it was gone in fact but imprinted on his memory.

The light of day is much too bright, too garish, for eyes that had grown accustomed to the darkness. As he is marched out to the gallows, he both searches for her and hopes he does not see her.

He wants her to remember him alive, even dirtied and bloodied and unwashed. It will be preferable to her last memory of him being his body swinging from—

_Oh. I’m to be beheaded, not hanged._ The sight of the guillotine comes as a bit of a surprise. No matter. It will be quick at least.

Then he sees her, standing still in the crowd, his strong Capulet. She is the only person not shouting accusations or insults. She is the only person he sees. He meets her eyes and his heart breaks at the sight of her pained expression.

Of course she would come.

He meets her gaze and wants to say something to comfort her, let her know he doesn’t blame her, but all he can do is keep moving.

Moving towards his death.

He doesn’t see her break down, falling to tears, as he is positioned in the guillotine.

“Wait! Wait!”

It is the prince’s voice that Benvolio hears, but he turns his head, somewhat painfully, to look to Rosaline, hoping to find some clue on her face. He finds only surprise and confusion.

When he is pulled to his feet, freed, and acquitted, he keeps his attention on her.

Until hell rains down upon them in the form of traitorous arrows.

Still, his brave Rosaline rushes  _forward_ instead of backward, into the fray, to his side.

He knows not where her heart lies just yet, with him or with the prince. But he does know that now he has the time to find out. And he will take whatever piece of her heart she will give him, be it romantic love or the love of friendship; he will take it and cherish it because she has given it to him.

Benvolio Montague was not executed that day, but he may have been resurrected nevertheless.


End file.
